The sky turned the color of a bruised plum

The sky turned the color of a bruised plum

and the shovel grew too heavy to lift.

I retreated to the porch to wait it out,

sitting on the crate where the paint cans sit.

I pulled the small blade from my pocket,

the one with the nick in the steel,

and started digging into the rubber soles

to find the shape of the heel.

Scraping out the yellow clay and the grit,

letting it fall in a pile by my feet.

It’s a slow, dull way to admit

that the earth always wins in the heat.